


Nothing is that simple

by Lenore



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Authority Figures, Coercion, Community: kink_bingo, Dubious Consent, M/M, Police, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a street hustler. Eames is the cop who is either exploiting him or trying to save him depending on how you look at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing is that simple

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Kink Bingo, for my center square, Authority Figures.

It’s late Friday night, prime money-making hours that Arthur is missing out on yet again, and the precinct smells predictably of armpits and urine. The uniform who arrested him, Officer Pettis, guides Arthur down the hall to the booking desk, his grip firm but not rough. Arthur has spent enough time here that he’s practically become a mascot; the cops crack jokes about charging him rent and keep him away from the serious thugs in the holding cells.

“Got something for you, Sarge.”

The desk sergeant glances up. “Jesus fucking Christ. Again?” He eyes the bruise blooming on Arthur’s cheek and gives Pettis a hard look. “What the fuck happened?”

Pettis holds up his hands in a _hey, it wasn’t me_ gesture. “Fight with his john.” He jerks his head toward the out-of-town businessman who thought he’d enjoy some battery along with his blowjob and got a bloody nose for his trouble. Arthur may be in the satisfaction business, but if someone hits him, he’s damn well going to hit back.

Across the way, the john is kicking up a fuss. “I’ll have you know I’m a close personal friend of the mayor. I shouldn’t even be here! That little piece of trash tried to rob me. I was just defending myself!”

“Yeah?” says the cop booking him, decidedly unimpressed. “Is that why you had your dick hanging out of your pants?”

The businessman sputters indignantly, and Arthur smiles. No explaining that away, and any moment now the guy will start to back pedal, say that it was all just a big misunderstanding. Arthur will walk out of here without any charges.

“Yeah, you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you, kid?” The sergeant sighs at Arthur. “Okay, put him in interview three. Detective Eames will want to talk to him.”

“ _Talk_ ,” Pettis snickers.

A hard look from the sergeant shuts him up, and he leads Arthur down another hall, into a blank-walled room with a table and two folding chairs. He pushes Arthur down onto one of the chairs, his hands still cuffed behind his back.

“He’ll probably be a few minutes,” Pettis says, almost apologetically, and leaves Arthur there.

Clearly, he knows what goes on in these “interrogations.” They all must, all the cops in the precinct. The why of it, though, that’s a mystery even to Arthur. Somehow he got onto Eames’s radar, and he’s stayed there, much to his dismay. In the last three months, he’s been arrested more times than any ten hookers put together.

It takes Eames more than a few minutes to appear, and Arthur is fighting off sleep by the time he finally saunters in. “Arthur. A pleasure as always.” His grin dims when he sees Arthur’s bruised face. He closes the door, locks it, rounds the table, and touches Arthur’s cheek lightly with his fingers. “All right there, love?”

“You should see the other guy.” He means it come out insolently, but the corner of his mouth lifts up without his permission. He wants to hate Eames, but just ends up despising himself for moments like these.

Eames smiles faintly as he settles onto the chair opposite Arthur. “You mean the bloke who tripped and fell face-first into a brick wall and gave himself a bloody nose? That’s the statement Henderson just took from him.”

“There aren’t going to be any charges,” Arthur says with a little smile of triumph.

“No charges. Have you thought any more about what we talked about last time?”

What they talk about _every time_. Arthur stares back belligerently.

“This is no life for you, love.” Eames takes a _be reasonable_ tone, which is just too fucking ironic, since there’s nothing remotely reasonable about this entire situation.

“Why do you even care?” Arthur asks, exasperated, and quickly holds up a hand before Eames can answer. “And if you say something sappy about my potential, I will throw up in my mouth.”

“We can’t have that, love. So I’ll dispense with the sentiment, and simply say that you have no idea what you’re capable of, and you never will if end up in a rubbish bin with your throat cut.”

“I think you just like fucking me,” Arthur challenges.

Eames smiles. “There is that too. I suppose if you still refuse to listen to reason, then we should just get on with it, yeah?” He comes around and pulls Arthur to his feet and undoes the handcuffs.

Arthur rubs ruefully at his wrists, and for one stupidly hopeful moment, he thinks maybe Eames will just let him go.

Instead, he orders, “Take your clothes off.”

Arthur glares at him. “You said there weren’t any charges.”

“Ah, but I can always book you for resisting arrest, can’t I? Your clothes.”

Arthur undresses resentfully. It doesn’t matter that he’s done this before, exactly the same way, far too many times already. There’s a hot, unsettled sensation in the pit of his stomach—vulnerability and simmering rage and something else that he doesn’t even want to think about. He steps out of his jeans and kicks them away. Eames’s gaze slides over his skin, slowly, thoroughly. Arthur is already starting to get hard, but Eames doesn’t say anything. He never does, not about that.

Eames secures Arthur’s hands behind his back again. Arthur may hate that part most of all. “You know what to do, love,” Eames tells him.

Arthur scowls, _fuck you_ , but he does what he’s supposed to, bends over the table, his cheek pressed against the cool Formica, and spreads his legs. The snap of the latex glove rings in the empty room, the squelch of the bottle of lubricant. Eames spreads Arthur’s cheeks apart, his touch cool and wet and not remotely clinical as he pushes a finger inside.

“You know I don’t do drugs or have any fucking weapons,” Arthur complains, his breath already coming faster and heavier.

“I know, love.” Eames strokes deeper, crooking, probing, adding a second finger, still searching.

Arthur sucks in a breath and jerks his hips when Eames finds what he’s looking for.

Eames rubs at Arthur’s prostate, ruthlessly arousing. “How many have already had you tonight?”

“Fuck you!”

Eames chuckles, bends close, his breath warm against Arthur’s cheek. “Oh no, love. Getting fucked is your job.”

A third finger, and Arthur’s a mess already, a puddle beneath his belly, his cock slick and sliding. He feels so full, so unbearably good, so furious he’d like to tear Eames apart with his bare hands. Getting fingered, getting fucked, that’s just business, and this thing with Eames is only supposed to be a get out of jail free card. Not—whatever this is.

“You started it, darling. I’m only finishing it,” Eames says, as if he can read Arthur’s thoughts.

He pulls his fingers out and whirls Arthur around, boosts him up onto the table, and spreads his legs wide. There’s already a slick mess between Arthur’s thighs, and he’s hard, and he doesn’t want to want this, but—

Eames tosses the glove and rolls on a condom. Arthur shouldn’t find anything about any of this arousing.

He sneers, because maybe that will make him feel better about himself. “What do you even think you’re doing? Teaching me a lesson with your cock? Are you going to fuck me until you save me? Is that what you think?”

“I’m under no illusions about what this is, darling.” He slides all the way home in one stroke.

Arthur slides on the slippery Formica, awkward with the handcuffs, unable to get purchase. Eames grips Arthur’s thighs, pulling him into every thrust. Arthur doesn’t have any illusions either, not anymore, but that doesn’t mean he understands what this is.

He might never have met Eames at all if he didn’t have the worst fucking luck imaginable. It was just another night at the office, Arthur down on his knees in the alley where he did some of his best business. To this day, he still has no idea what Eames was doing there, if he was working a case or maybe had come from one of the nearby bars. Just suddenly a voice rang out, “Police. Freeze.”

The john legged it away. Arthur wasn’t quite fast enough getting up from the ground, and Eames ran him down, snapped on the cuffs before Arthur even knew what was happening. He kicked and thrashed, but Eames was solid muscle in a bad suit. There was no pulling free of his iron grip. Arthur had never been arrested before, and for a few dizzying seconds he really thought he might throw up.

Eames patted him down and came up with Arthur’s driver’s license, which he _knew_ he shouldn’t have taken out to work with him, but he was afraid it might get stolen if he left it at the place where he was staying.

“Arthur, is it? Well, Arthur, I’m doing you a favor here, whether you realize it or not.” The deliberate gentleness in Eames’s voice made Arthur want to spit.

 _Cops are horny motherfuckers like any other guys_ , that was the tip Arthur had gotten from Jerry, the kid who worked the next corner over. _If you get jammed up, tell the cop he can fuck you if he lets you go. Works sometimes._

Jerry and his stupid fucking advice.

But Arthur hadn’t understood then what a big mistake he was making. “You know, you really don’t need to take me down to the station.” He stopped struggling and pressed close against Eames’s side. He made his voice go soft and as seductive as he could manage when he was so fucking scared. “You’ve got a car, right? I’m sure we can settle this there.”

Eames stopped, surprised, and then his expression shuttered as he studied Arthur. “That’s how you want this to go, is it? All right then. We can do it your way.”

Arthur’s heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his throat. “You’ll let me go afterward?”

“I’ll let you go,” Eames agreed.

Arthur had no way of knowing then what a big fucking lie that was.

The car was parked on a side street, not exactly private, but it was late, and no one was out, and the car’s windows were tinted. Eames opened the rear door and pushed Arthur inside, so that he was kneeling on the seat, arms still cuffed behind his back. Arthur jumped at the sound of the slamming door, skittish to have Eames suddenly crowded so close. _Don’t let him see you’re fucking nervous, asshole_ , Arthur told himself sternly.

This became harder to manage when Eames unceremoniously yanked Arthur’s jeans down his legs, not a word of warning. Arthur wasn’t sure what he’d expected—it wasn’t as if they were going to chat first—but the abruptness of it caught him off guard. In the claustrophobic space, even the faint crinkle of the condom wrapper sounded unnervingly loud. It was Arthur’s instinct to kick, to fight when big hands pulled his thighs apart.

“You’re the one who wanted to make this deal,” Eames reminded him.

Arthur went still, pliant. He felt Eames’s dick brush against his ass, and then there was pressure against his hole, a shock to the system. There had been a part of him that honestly hadn’t believed a cop would really do this.

Eames fucked matter-of-factly, no force, no _damned faggot_ or _take it you little whore_ muttered meanly into Arthur’s ear, no punishment. Just steady thrusts and grunts of exertion and his hand tight around Arthur’s cock making the sex feel far better than it should. Just a get out of free card, but bodies were bodies, and Arthur couldn’t help pushing into Eames’s touch, back onto his cock. Maybe that was the punishment, it occurred to Arthur later.

“You’re one twisted son of a bitch,” Arthur slurred out.

“And you are a beautiful tart who’s getting exactly what he asked for.” Eames pressed a kiss softly to the back of Arthur’s neck.

Arthur could feel the bastard smiling.

Afterward Eames played the gentleman—cleaned Arthur up, righted his clothes—but the handcuffs remained on.

“If you don’t—“ Arthur started, but what did he have to threaten with? He could report Eames, but no one would believe him.

Eames put his arms around Arthur’s shoulders then, and Arthur froze, not sure what was coming next. For the first time since he’d started hustling, he was honest to God terrified.

All Eames wanted was to talk, though.

“You’re too old to hand over to social services, and I won’t insult you by suggesting you go home to your family. I’m sure you had your reasons for leaving. But when you get tired of having crap sex with strangers so you can half starve, here are people you can call for help.” He held up a business card for Arthur to see, some organization called Next Step.

Playing the do-gooder, as if he hadn’t just traded Arthur his freedom for his ass.

“You’d better fucking let me go,” Arthur told him angrily.

“Of course.” Eames unlocked him and tucked the business card into his pocket.

Arthur scrambled out of the car and made a show of tossing the card into the dirt.

Eames just smiled. “Until next time then.”

Arthur should have known that meant trouble.

 

Apparently Eames put out the word to his cop buddies: bring Arthur in for any reason possible. Because suddenly Arthur couldn’t do anything without being hauled down to the station. Once he’d been arrested for fucking jaywalking. When Arthur asked around, Jerry and the other guys working the area said: _Oh shit, that fucker Detective Eames will lock your ass up, ask questions later, no working a deal with him._ And yet, it happened the same way every time Eames dragged Arthur into the precinct. Always the speech. Always the business card. Always sex.

It turns Arthur on far more than it should, that Eames is corrupt only for him.

“You know you’re fucking exploiting me,” Arthur spits out, trying to pretend he doesn’t like it when Eames strokes his hands over Arthur’s skin, stares at his body like he really sees him.

He tries to tell himself that his legs are only locked around Eames’s waist because his hands are bound, because he has to steady himself somehow.

“Mm, that’s what happens in your chosen profession, darling. You get used. If you don’t like it, best choose something else to do with your life.”

Arthur grits his teeth. “I hate you.” He does, he really does, and yet this is still the most cared for he’s probably ever felt. God. He’s almost as fucked up as Eames. “I hate you so fucking much.”

“Of course you do, love.” Eames kisses Arthur’s neck, thumbs his nipples.

Every thrust hits Arthur’s prostate, and Arthur’s already so hard, and he can’t touch himself. He’s shaking like he’s never going to stop. “What do you want from me?” It’s helpless, almost, _almost_ a sob.

Eames’s only answer is to fuck him harder, deeper.

“Fuck you!” Arthur flails, straining against the cuffs, the steel biting into his wrists. “Unlock me.” He wants to get his hands on Eames, wants to—he doesn’t even know what. “Come on, you fucking asshole.”

Eames never has before, so Arthur doesn’t really expect it now, needs a moment to understand what’s happening when Eames reaches around him, undoes the cuffs without even a stutter in his rhythm. Arthur sinks his fingers into Eames’s hair—that’s what he needed his hands free for—and pulls hard, just because he can, because he wants Eames’s mouth on his.

They’ve never kissed before. Arthur hasn’t kissed anyone since he started working. Eames’s point all along has been to show Arthur that being a whore might feel like a kind of power, but it’s really not. Arthur bites a fuck-you in kisses to his mouth. Nothing is ever that simple.

“Arthur,” Eames moans, like this hurts him and he likes it, and Arthur is glad, because that’s how he fucking feels about it too.

“Fuck me harder.” Arthur digs his heels into Eames’s back.

“Christ,” Eames mutters. He slides his hands beneath Arthur’s ass and hoists him up into the thrusts.

“Shit, shit.” Arthur scrabbles at Eames’s shoulders and kisses frantically and gets a hand on his own cock.

For a few moments, it’s not business. Not a lesson. Not a get out of jail free.

After they’ve both come, Arthur sags in Eames’s arms, his face against Eames’s shoulder. Eames strokes his hands over Arthur’s back, brushes kisses to his hair, letting Arthur hold onto the first illusion he’s allowed himself in years for just a little while longer.

At last Eames draws back and zips up, and when he tilts Arthur’s chin up for a kiss, Arthur already knows it’s going to be the last one. “What I want, dear Arthur, as much as it pains me,” Eames says quietly, his mouth pressed to Arthur’s ear, “is never to see your lovely face again.”

He leaves the business card on the table, as he always does, and goes.

Arthur sits there, naked and shivering, for who knows how long. He gets up and puts his clothes back on and, after a moment, picks up the card. When he leaves the station, he keeps on walking.


End file.
